


Nothing But Thieves Left For Her

by thequirkyduckling



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DC Comics, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, Developing Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Graphic Description, I'm Bad At Tagging, Joker - Freeform, Joker x Harley - Freeform, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, monogamish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7773763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequirkyduckling/pseuds/thequirkyduckling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after Harley Quinns break-out.  Plot revolves around Harley's independence and what would happen if The Joker had a brother?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

"Hold still, babycakes. _Yes, yes, yes._ " Her hand is sparkling, barbie pink nail polish, five bright points of light beneath the balloon she holds high above her head. She does as she is told and stays the fuck still. 

J is loading his crossbow. 

He is hunched like a leopard fawning over its volte-faced claws, he is folded over his weapon, tinkering and lining her up. The crossbow is armed with a bolt, his thumb pressed into his hollowed cheek as he raises the weapon, tottering the crosshairs from the crook of her neck to the baby blue balloon above. 

He is acid, his voice perfume. "Tuck those digits and give daddy a big smile." Green is the color of his hair, green is the shade of his ambition. She smiles until the molars in the deep real estate of her mouth gleam, her fist tight enough to feel her heart pulse. She hears the bow string snap the very moment his left eye squeezes, the chord plucks in c-minor, the balloon bursting is a crash of lightning. 

A flap of rubber, the shape of Hawaii, lands on her shoulder. It's as lifeless as her enjoyment, curled and puckered, her merriment exhausted by this point. It is the early hours of day, still dark. It's been six hours of target practice. And she has been the target board.

He spreads his arms wide, embracing the victory around him, his plated teeth bared as he sighs, "Baby, the apple of my eye. _So, so, so_ perfect. How could I ever miss and catch that pretty skin?"

She grumbles, twisting her feet and hips. "Puddin, I don't won't to play darts anymore. I'll move and you'll nick me... My arm is tired..." His eyes pearl with faux astonishment to her disobedience, his lips puckering a near silent 'O'. 

"No fun? Aw, Ah. _No, no_ , we can't have that." He clicks his teeth, swaying his head with the motion of his tsking finger. "How about this? I make it more interesting." J keeps the crossbow at his thigh, his mouth and tongue enunciating flamboyantly. "How bout it, girly?" 

She perks up, wriggling to the gold hook in his eyes; the voices ring in her head, singing love for their liege. She claps, a monkey toy banging her cymbals, her voice high with the turned up wrinkles of her eyes. It's a cube of ice tinkling on the edge of a scotch glass, she squeals- "Yes, yes, yes!!" She jumps around the tarmac, playful for him. 

She warms to the sight of his grin, he is pleased. His pleasure is worth breaking over a wheel of nails and having her limbs twisted into a bow. 

"There's my girl. Now take another balloon." He purrs, tugging at his ear, his eyes seated low with lust. She does as she is fucking told and picks up the balloon. He is humming and snaking his gaze from her, back to the carbon fiber doohickey. She pulls back the mouth of the balloon, letting it slap home. The sound is seductive, mimicking the fleshy noises of where their bodies meet in either sex or fight. 

She is eager for his new instruction. 

"Put the balloon between your teeth." Her heart races, a trespassing rodent kicking within the nest between her lungs, she thinks that it must of found its way in through the hole in her face. She slips the donut-shaped tail into her mouth, suckling on the taste. 

She muses with her tongue the ring of entry, squeaking the rubber against the flats of her teeth. She stands straight, the balloon jutting erect from her mouth; the crossbow is already up in his arms like a child, his face cupped against it. 

He gives her a toothy demand, to bend forward with her hands trussed like a chicken. She follows through, sticking out her rear and bending her knees, her hands resting on the small of her back, criss-crossed. 

She seeks for his eyes, he who is breaker her chains, keeper of her heart. From one tar pit to the next, her journey was traveled in his arms and not her own, but hell, broken birds cannot fly without string. 

His finger wiggles and caresses the trigger without engaging it. J teases like no other, "Do you trust me?" 

She has only implicit faith for him. She squeaks the rubber in her mouth, chewing her trust, not to crumble it, but to thoroughly taste her love and savor the enduring mush, that concrete that keeps her bones from breaking beneath him, time and time again. 

She pokes out her lips in response to his question. 

And oh, how he smiles such a genuine smile for her, it makes her forget all about the bolt slicing through the air towards her, her body long gone foggy when she hears the bolt slap the board behind her. 

Oh, and how he still smiles, as the very same bolt which had cut across her teeth and lip, has now left her bleeding like a stuck pig from her mouth. A comet tail of pain in her stretching scream, her mind searching for stars beneath her eyelids. 

She chokes on the blood filling her cheeks, sputtering rouge on the still inflated balloon clutched between her teeth. The stinging pain across her lips a reminder that her love is faith, his love is torture. 

She pouts, wiping her hand across the wound, her pale arm red with a trail. 

But his arm is tight around her waist now, his fingers attentive to the wound squirting onto his Prada.

His episcopal rings bump her nose when he pokes around the split flesh, playing with the gape as you would a puppet's hole. She tires her best not to wail into his hand, her tongue purpling in the effort. 

And, at last, when his investigation has ceased, he kisses her busted mouth in apology. All bitterness, all rising acrimony, all of her best cut rage leaves her with the dribbling blood painting their faces. 

He breaks away, clamping her shoulders in both affection and annoyance. She tires to shrink away in her own skin, expecting a reprimand for the missed shot. But he is tender as a pussycat. 

"How about we get a drink? And some sugar ice to suckle?" He hums against her hairline with her dangling in his arms. She cannot speak, her mouth so swollen, and instead gurgles her approval and happiness. 

She leaks bloody smiles against his shirt. 

He rests a moment with her in his arms, readjusting the strings he so temperamentally severed. It is a fool's game, caring, hating like this.

The Joker with his mind splayed in all direction, with his nemesis in all shadow of thought, with his legacy and his games, his puppets and his citizens in constant trying, he finds himself thinking of that which he hates most. That small part locked in a nutshell, the warmth of his past, the seed of his doubt. The realizations of his hope and coventousness for her, this monster he molded inside his arms. 

He thinks of killing her and ridding himself of the refection she brings once and for all. 

Instead, he ponders a bridge where none can cross. Where the faces of the past stay the fuck away.


	2. That Of Lice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"_ She wonders that if she professes her love, if those words could alleviate and temper his mood. She skips over that ridiculous thought with wounded feet, bitterly fantasizing over sexual exchanges that might do the trick instead. _"_

When she awakens, aching and dazed, the brevity of her slumber causes her eyes to burn like desert rope. Her eyes burning, are too, stiff. Wet cotton swabs are taped over her lids, she peels them off with pinched fingers, agitated. 

The gold-flaked spackel of the ceiling spirals in her vision, the twirling ceasing the moment her lip begins to pulse. There, knotted under her nose, are stitches zippered all the way down to the cupid's bow. Her lip, it feels, alien, like a numb little animal curled up in the furrow above her teeth. 

She snickers, her finger nudging the tiny creature inbetween her front teeth and nose, it's belly shaven and knitted. 

The tables squeak when she fidgets atop of them, J's mink coat too warm around her. Harley tries to move again, squirming to find deeper comfort against the rickety tabletops that had been hastily pushed together to create a jerry-built surgical table. 

The music inside the club bangs the glasses, shaking the stanges on the shelves like rattlebacks in gyration. She counts every distant blurred reflection as she would stars, the night sky being the liquor display, her starship being the horse-shoe shaped sectional surrounding her. 

She gulps, her throat sticking together like hot gum. 

She is so thirsty... But doubts J will allow her to drink with her face this banged up. Expanding her mouth, little by little, she can feel each careful cord greedily snag her skin. There is little room to fit even a straw in. She feels for the patch and needle likely to be stationed on her arm instead. 

_'The drip it is then.'_ She thinks sourly, but she notices that he has too, neglected that choice as well. Her arm is bare. 

That and now, she is all alone. The VIP section completely abandoned, with only her left to recover singly. Her body is fattened by gravity, mind clouded, desperately she tries to remember the names of the drugs J has given her- but gives up when her tongue twists around the complicated vowels. 

The insides of her cheeks are peeling, the crown of her tongue flaking, that gross white sick coating her mouth thicker than fat on bacon. Her thirst is unquenchable at this point. 

That is when she remembers the water hoses behind the bar, she could slurp the water in plentiful, by drowning in it. Slapping her lips together, she grimaces in pain and lifts off the table, stiletto's first to touchdown. 

As she skirts, wobbly-legged, around the glass-cased platforms toward the mahogany bar, she spies J. 

He is without his henchmen, without the crowds, seated all by his lonesome, hunched over the bar, glaring at an empty glass and a full bottle of Midori. 

She bores her nails inside her flesh, forcing herself to speak, the stitches nearly pulling loose. "Is that glass polished, Mistah?" His green head lolls, indicating he has heard her, but he takes his time in responding, mulling over her bubbly anticipation until he candidly snarls, his index finger jabbing the bar top. "Shut your mouth." 

Crestfallen, she plops down beside him, burying her tender face and sored feelings into her arms. If she huffs, she will be walloped. If she asks for a glass of water, she will be walloped twice as hard. His mood dictates this delicate ritual of rapport and magnanimity, and right now he is no sunflower, but a curmudgeon dragon willing to crush maidens beneath his talons. 

She peeks at him from underneath her lashes. He is blowing breath onto his empty glass. Yes, a dragon, smoke billowing, leather wings snapping and everything- the resemblance uncanny. 

She wonders that if she professes her love, if those words could alleviate and temper his mood. She skips over that ridiculous thought with wounded feet, bitterly fantasizing over sexual exchanges that might do the trick instead.

But, _no, no._

He is holding himself away, his skin tightening in a way that lets her know that he's distressed. Touching him, reaching for him, would only spell her death. 

Her chin perches above her elbow, studying him, patiently holding out for him to break the surface, withdraw from those dark depths that which pull him down so frequently. 

He notices her ogling with lackluster emotion, twisting off the cap of the bottle and corking it with a spout, he beckons for her to lift her lips to him and without a word, he gently bottle-feeds her the liquor. 

It is a small, attentive distraction from the many faces of his nuisance. 

The obsession for a moment to catch his breath, to regain the tattering's of his mind, persuades him to spoil her and, just maybe, lean the rottenness that fills him up. He is worried that his little canary will try to speak, he has forbade her concern and if she should choose to speak anything heartfully, he will squelch it like a snail in the garden. 

He detests how tough her heart is, how it can still beat within her chest, still swell full with his fingers crushing it every moment it grows. But that little mustard seed of admiration has a funny way of betraying his mind from his eyes. 

He cannot live with such a crippling, he plucks the metal nipple from her mouth, choosing to speak his thoughts rather than wallow. "I have been thinking of my brother." 

She is confused, which is the only natural response he could have ever expected. "Brother? J- I didn't know that." Her voice is careful, warbled by her wound. 

"Only the old crew know of him and of course, the Batman." He shouldn't sound off-put, this conversation is already tittering off the rails, but it has to pass, it has to go and leave his mind alone.

"What happened to him?" She doesn't dodge around his sorrow, but drives a stake clean through. 

He sucks his teeth, glaring down his pissant reluctance. "A hit gone bad. He was meant to knock off an elective official... The new, well new then, criminal justice administrator. But, ah... The intel was wrong, the men were wrong and he-" He pauses then, knowing it's bad to speak incorrectly of the dead. "-My brother was the one left to foot the bill." 

He drags his nails across the bar, seething, eyes wild. "Every man but him got away, scot-free. It wouldn't have been sooo, so bad, if I hadn't killed them all. You see, I've always had this little whimsy- This little doodlebug in my head...That his capture was an act of subversion. That some of my more eminent goons were planning a coup against us." 

He smashes his glass and the bottle against the backwash. The sound of shattering is easier to swallow than the anguish building. "But my bloodlust cost me the proof. I should have interrogated them."

"Which one's pudding? Who did it? I'll rip em'." His baby is snarling, her lip dripping blood again. He has his hand on her forehead and in her hair, clutching her, yanking her, away in a second. 

"That's not what _this_ is." He reprimands, shaking with rage at her misinterpretation. She is after all the one who is always spilling her guts, always fucking promulgating her feelings. He is furious she would neglect that thing, this emotion he is making vulnerable for them, for himself. 

Her eyes have widened, now seeing that his pride has been bruised, his needs deafened to her ostentatious display. She slopes down to the floor defeated, his hand still bunching the cap of her skull, submitting is the only apology she can offer now. 

"I'm sorry, Puddin'. I was mad like you... I wanted their skins more than I wanted you happy." His grip loosens, hesitating, before bringing her up onto his lap, she curls relieved inside his embrace. 

"I forget sometimes how much you are like me." He soothes her, his face retracted as far as possible from hers, his knuckles tight in his plated teeth. His anger is still not yet vanquished, just simmering. But it is enough of a meager change for her to rebound, pacified and jovial once again. 

She nuzzles the splay of cards on his collar, comforted in his enveloping grip.

Despite, the almost certain promise of his wraith once again, a question formulates out of pure jealousy and envy. She showers some painful kisses at his neck, seeking the place where his hair begins to curl, it has always been the place where she confesses. "Do you love him?" 

"Wha-?" His grips tightens painfully, but there is victory cementing the cracks of her insecurity, for he hasn't dumped her on the floor outright yet. She tires once again, "I was asking if you love him or not? I'm wondering why you haven't busted him out of Arkham, if all you ever gonna do is sulk bout the entire thing?"

There will bruises on her arms tomorrow where he is gripping. 

His breath is there, right in her ear, he talks as if he has won something. "He's _dead._ They didn't bother taking him to Arkham unlike you baby, they saw what he meant to me, they saw my prodigy, my partner. _No, no, no._ They didn't take him to the same cozy farm you got sent, they took him far, far, far away and put him down. Because if they kept him alive, he would have burned the world to the ground, just to get back to me. " He shoves her off his lap, his voice venom. "You didn't burn a single match for me. So, baby, don't go questioning my love, _oh no_ , it's your love that needs to be put to the test." 

* * *

 

#####  Some Months Later

Harley ventures the halls of a private fabric shop, her hands touching everything she can get a hold of. The endless variations of textures have for the moment, preoccupied her. 

She searches for a sheet of velvet, only the finest will do for her needs. In the dome reflection of the stores security mirrors raised above the halls, she see's herself immersed in the ravines of cloth. Harley runs her tongue along her top teeth, her veneers and scarred lip the source of her fixation. The trepidation she once had over the superficial aspects of her appearance have all but faded by now. 

She proudly wears all the jewelry that J has gifted to her to compensate for that dead embarrassment. 

A clerk has been patiently guiding her along, although, Harley suspects that the stoicism is a benefit of being one of the most feared individuals in Gotham. "What color would Monsieur prefer?" 

" _Monsieur_ , I like that...Ooh." The clerk makes no further comment. "It needs to be somethin' bold and poppin'. The brightest, nicest colors you got, Missy!"

The hard-nosed woman sniffs at her, before with her hand inclined, shows her some of the most dazzling fabrics they have to offer. Harley spiders her fingers along the woven bolts, humming and hawing. "I dunno, they all are lookers. What do ya think?" 

The clerk adjusts her glasses, bending over her. "If I had to choose, I would pick the color best associated with your Monsieur. I would select a fabric that bequeaths him, and that too flatters you."

"Me...?" She points to herself, brows knitted. 

"Why yes, Mademoiselle. You will be by his side, it would only be proper if the color compliments you as well. Your business dictates that you dress appropriately, and a powerful, cooperative couple speaks volumes without a word needing to be said. I believe the proverb is, dressed to the nines." 

Harley selects a purple linen, kicking out her heel in excitement. "It's _dressed to kill._ "

* * *

 

Harley rejoins the henchmen that J had escort her today, they gravitate, smokes snuffed, hands extended for her shopping bags when she leaves the shop. She follows them down the lot, their bodies shielding her as cattle would a calf when the wolves race. 

She knows them all by name, every profile down to the punctuation's and distant relatives. Harley considers them friends. 

But they are dull and boring. J doesn't like them talking directly to her unless absolutely necessary. And if she was truthful, it was _absolutely necessary_ that the silence be broken. "Did ya see the pretty stuff I bought J!" 

They all eye her wearily, fingers to their earpieces, most of their brainpower spent on navigating the four lane street. "C'mon you guys! I need you to talk to me... If you don't J will hear bout' how you all bored me!"

It was immediate. 

"What do you want to talk about?" The tallest bloke grumbles, his voice very bassy. She could very well prattle on about her presents, or her shoes, or her dresses, maybe even her hammers and mallets. But by their sleepy eyes and pursed lips, they wouldn't have the capability to volleyball the topic. 

She thinks of something risker. 

They wouldn't be able to talk about this conversation anyway, not without their hands and feet removed first for ever having talked to her. 

"Have you guys ever heard of The Jester?" The silence stretches and nearly chokes her. 

A chuff of astonishment comes from the tall one, "Fuck me running. He actually told her."

Harley claps pleased, prancing up beside the big guy. "So you know bout' my Puddins' brother?"

He lifts one bushy eyebrow. "All I know about The Jester, is that he is boss man's twin, like identical twin." Now this tidbit, is something she didn't already know. Her heart nearly plunges between her feet at the idea. That _two_... That someone who looked exactly alike to her Mistah J once walked about. 

She flushes.

Big Man continues, "And that, his brother, helped build the crime empire here in Gotham, if not personally spearheaded the entire thing. He is quite the urban legend amongst us thieves."

"If he even existed." A skinny henchmen hisses, agitated. 

Harley wheels on him, lip curled. "You calling my J a liar!?" 

A large hand extends itself out in-front of her, careful not to touch. Big Man speaks ruefully, "Don't mind him, Missy. It's just hard for some of us to believe he ever did truly walk among us. I mean, some of the things he did, are just... _incredible_."

"Like what?" She puffs her bangs, cracking her knuckles at the man who insulted J.

"Well..." He scratches his impressive beard, "Like the night, the one that happened during the bad hit, some friend of my sisters, told me that he actually knew one of the blokes that were there that night and that he had told him about what really went down, before you know, boss man iced him and the rest of the crew. He had told me, that Batman had showed up about half-way through, and that The Jester, in order to cover the assassination attempt and spare the men- went head on head with the Bat. That he, turned himself in, in order to protect the project and the crew." 

"What bullshit. Why would he save those men? Only to have his brother kill them afterwards... Pfft. Besides, it's not in _these clowns_ nature to stick out their necks for others." The skinny man, eyes her with contempt and disgust. 

"You know I preferred when you couldn't talk."

She brings her fist to his teeth, the power of her punch rattling back inside her skull. But for the pain, there's the satisfaction of watching the man's teeth spill like coins against the sidewalk. 

The men are deathly silent after that. 

Not that she cares, she got what she wanted, more shining pieces of the puzzle to her Mistah J.

They start to round the corner to the vehicles, when she happens to gaze across the street, the first spring storm rolling in on the horizon. She catches the breeze, tasting the thunder and cool wind. 

But in her basking... 

She sees a panel van parked between two buildings, quite inconspicuous. 

And eyes, she swears there are eyes on her. The prickling sweat, the bristling hairs, her sense of balance sucking in on herself. 

Oh, yes. It has to be a peeper. A dirty, old stalker. She moves to dart across the street and apprehend the stalker violently, when a light, a darting reflection from the building above, beams into her eyes blinding her.

* * *

 

Detective Coyle chews at the lip of his coffee cup, watching The Clown Queen and her entourage make their way to their automobiles. His partner has the camera, rapidly snapping, when she spots them. 

"Shit, shit, fuck." Coyle curses under his breath, his hand ready to turn on the ignition if she should move on them. His partner grips his holster, the movement is far too quick. " _Jesus_ , don't move. She'll make us out." 

Andrew shifts in the passenger seat, cautiously bringing the camera down from it's tripod, hiding it from view.

Coyle studies her, her face scrunched up on them, her hand wiggling in her purse for a...phone perhaps? Nope, a glock. He turns his attention back to his partner, "Okay, we've burnt this nest. Radio it in, they'll pursue." 

"Wait, for fuck sakes, she's backing off. " Andrew puts his crucifix in his mouth, lifting the camera once again, clicking off fifty pictures a second. 

He looks back out the tinted windshield, watching in disbelief as she paws at her face, the sunlight fluttering in her eyes. 

Her lackeys grab her and guide her back towards the ghost cars, their heads swinging around, searching for the disturbance, before tailing it out. 

It is a relief their tires don't screech. They are _calm._

Coyle relaxes back into his seat, his hands sticky on the steering and his bladder painfully full. His eyes trained on the sky, thanking any fucking God for having intervened. 

His partner nudges him, "Should we call it in?" 

Coyle runs his hands through his hair, breathing out deeply. "Fuck yeah."

Andrew dials in on their private phone, the receiver answers, the phone pressed to his ear, the other ear cupped with his hand. "Yes get me, Amanda Waller's office." 

It is hushed for a moment, only their near-shit-flying-panic breathing disturbing the crackle of the phone.

Then his partners eyes read, _'Got them.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a zinger for me! Phew! Leave a comment or message me and let me know how I'm doing!
> 
> Things will start to pick up from here, and I promise you there will be exchanges between J and Harley that are actually positive.


	3. Be Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " That is when she feels the garrote wire lynch around her neck. The blocks having become more secluded, more remote, urban waste, a perfect place for a snuff. She has known this since J took her out on their first date. "

A nightmare, is the collection of thoughts gone sour. But memories, they are the bath the thoughts sour and die. 

Funny, how he finds himself by that lake of acid, burning at the bank of those thoughts; torched on spindly branches he finds a memory, turned to a dream. 

At the tea colored time of day, muggy in summer although winter in his dream, he stands by his brother with his breath like a dragon, dime candy on his tongue. There is a mass between them, growing like cancer, fractal spines and broken edges is all he can discern of the smudge. 

The smear moves, crawling and wriggling, becoming a boy left twisted on the bent spokes of his bicycle. The twitching corpse is wearing a bubble jacket, indeed it is cold outside. But feathers are splayed every which where, sputtered in a circle around them. There are many holes in the school boy, they are pouring out blood and goose feathers. 

His shoes are expensive, but what a waste, when he sees that the tops having been soiled in guts, the little boys stomach spilled from his belly. He notices his brothers neck watch in his cold, dimpled hand, _stolen._ Those hands are laid back against his stabbed sides like fishermen line, turned palm open, fleshy like the pig ears his father would feed the dog. 

Perhaps, they should feed this little piggy to the dog.

His brother isn't crying, isn't crying like he did when their mom left, not crying like he does when he matchsticks beetles, not crying like he does when their pops beats them. He is only frowning, lips puckered deep, maybe thinking of what needs to be done with the body. 

He is always so smart.

Maybe, he knows there is no going back. But an abyss is after all only empty, open space, an opportunity. He is tired of living cramped and locked...He would let his brother take him away.

His brother's face is swollen, lips fat from the fight, looking just as every bit as fucked and marked up as that dead little boy. His nose bleeding a forked river, as he turns to look at him fondly, bottle-blonde and fierce in the blue. He has a knife. The blade never seems to stop running blood, running red into the snow, ruining his soul red.

 

It is the knocking of the night that stuns him awake, his cheek peeling off his desk, the leather chair squealing as he straightens his back. 

Wrapped around him, all for his comfort, is a sheet of purple velvet. A precious gift from his Harley, ah, an apology for her months of combativeness, or perhaps a plea for his confused attentions to fall back to her. He rubs the fabric in his fist, the stylus of his pen aimed for his jugular. 

Perhaps this.... is an alm for the haunted then.

Must he admit, must he confess his unhappiness, that this sorrow has affected him for longer than ever before. His teeth click as he tosses the pen across the room, reading the note his baby left him, rather than gouge out his throat just yet. 

_-"This is the leftover. The rest is at the tailor, making a match out of you and me! Luv ya, puddin! Get better!"_

He stick licks the note over his heart, his shirt open, his body aching for this depression to leave. Tacked to the wall with a cleaver is a babies onesie, it's been there since the day they stopped trying. 

His eyes sting.

He wants a family, a new body to fill this hungry hole. The batman is creating his legacy, and where was he, but snuffing out every growing threat. Twisting the turns, building the rail, poking the beast to come out and play.

He left one detail sordidly vacant. His patrimony. He needs many able princes and princesses to contend with Gotham come the future, come the destiny.

He leaves the blackened room, abandons the besmirched emotions, this land belongs to him, this city is his and it will be his families home. 

He could fight why he went to her room, for solace, for continuation, for vanquishing, it all wrestles in his mind like snakes in a pit.

He deems them unworthy, slaughtering the serpents that wreath his control. He fishes for the thermometer in the cabinets, it is inside a jar with a metal hat. There is a walkway from the cabinets and closet to her, and the bed, he takes it. 

She sleeps with her hands covering her face. There is a notebook with careful calculations in his head. She is above the covers which will make this easier, he settles beside her in much the way a crocodile waits at the bank of a river. 

He tucks the goad into her mouth, into the soft meat under her tongue, and cradles her head in his hands. It takes a moment for the instrument to read her temperature.

He is breathing deeply, strands of her hair supping into his nostrils. 

He is pleased with the result, as much as a devil is with anarchy. The promise is here, his hand glides to her belly until both his hands gather there and bunch at the fabric in need. His want for a child, he hopes it bleeds from his hands into her skin. 

He is ripping apart. The hole in his head needs feeding.

She is laughing in her sleep, her hands finding him from between her legs. Her eyes are lazy, fluttering slits that see nothing, but she acts if she knows what he is doing, fakes to respond, pretends to understand him and allow him the entry he already took.

The amber light of the dark is mixing with her cries.

He takes what is his, pushing her down into the plush, letting the ice from his nightmares soak her down to the bone. It is the soft, sucking noises of their bodies mingling, crashing in that place, that metronomes the time expiring. There is a leaf of sweat ponded between her breasts, skin laced with pink cuts from his nails. 

She is still looking at him, drugged looking in the eyes, smiling big in relief. Her jaws must be tired, rusted springs by now. His body is reacting, reaching for that burning bulb of complete, it's there in his head, a switch in the back. 

He hasn't reached for the flip yet. 

He cannot feel where they moor, he is deadened to such luxurious feeling. This is a living exchange, organic material passing only.

But her hands have found him again, x-shaped over his banging heart so, so sweetly, he finds in her eyes the pleasure he has long been numb to.

And he laughs, and laughs, finding that perfect part of him once again.

* * *

 

Harley rocks against his sleeping side, knocking their bodies together like timber trees in the wind. He has buried his head beneath a pillow, his fingers twitching in his restless sleep. 

She is tender between her legs, a shy wet of blood having sodden the tail of her nightgown. From wiggling her toes, to shimming her hips, the light sting is evidence of their quickie.

She is gladdened with joy. The morning light pressing through the curtains, across her eyes and across- A thermometer hidden amongst the tiger print sheets. 

She springs from the bed, squealing silently, clutching the device in her hand. She is elated that J is trying again, humoring her aspirations for a family once more. The last time they tried, the last time she had failed, he refused to attempt again.

Her stomach groans in hunger and her smile widens, slapping her tummy playfully. _'Does Joker Junior want a snack? '_ She shuts the blinds, readjusting her nightgown. 

J is laying on his side now, his flank lightly rising and falling. She speaks softly, she speaks proudly to her stomach. "Daddy works hard, we must let him rest. Let's go eat and make you strong."

She bites the inside of her cheek, "I would like you to stay this time, sweet baby."

* * *

 

She sits on the white leather sofa, grape soda in a crystal glass, a big bowl of catfish verde nestled in her crossed legs. The smell of fish and blood is overpowering, but she loves the affirmation of her and J's rekindled breeding. The musk is tangy, she lifts another forkful of bullhead into her mouth, flipping through the infomercials. 

She cuts past the commercials, phone seated beside her in case she finds something delectable.

She settles on a auction for a pair of Miu Miu glitz heels, her toes wiggling underneath her knees. Her mouth full, when it happens, so quickly. 

A prompt appears on the television screen, the warning box glitching in and out. The hazed pixels form a sentence, two quick words that will change her life forever. 

The message: **[-be ready-]**

She springs towards the box, her hands fizzing with static the moment she presses her hands to the screen- but it's gone. She reaches for the wires, ripping them from the wall, dust and sparks clouding the air. 

She has a pheasant decanter from the mantle raised in one hand, just about ready to disassemble the television for a wire, when J having be roused from his sleep, pulls her back from the downed electronic. 

He hisses tartly in her ear, his jab deactivating her immediately. "What is going on? Why do you insist on bullying our appliances?" 

Her arm is warm where he touches, but she is rattled nonetheless and she hope J is quick to see it. "We are being spied on! I saw some sort of encryption on the screen..." She stomps her foot on the vent, plastic teeth shattering. 

His face tenses from the more fucked-out look he had on before, his eyes becoming dirty ice chips, his skin white as salt. He presses a kiss to her lips, hushing her as he swings her around to the door. His nose wrinkling in distaste when he catches a whiff of her, of the earthy reek she medals proudly.

"Take a bath. I'll be there in two shakes of a lambs tail." Her prior nervousness leaves her, as he pushes her lightly above the rump, towards the bath in encouragement. 

His eyes now set on the tube, battered and sparking, as she rounds the corner, her hips pumping for attention anew. 

* * *

 

She soaks in the water, tracing a heart on her thigh with blood pricked from her quim. The bath bomb is still rolling beneath her spine, expiring its rainbow colors into the bubbles soaking her. 

She sinks her head under the water, her hair breaking at the surface like reeds. She feels the panel of muscle from her navel, to the twist and band of her chest, then the narrow of her neck, to the bulge of her skull. 

Her lips pursed around the silvery air tight in her teeth. She is taunted thinking of the sea monkey in her belly, there are doubts of its existence squelched by her excitement to be a mother. 

The water is scalding, pocking artificial comfort into her muscles the more she sinks in and tries not to think. She lifts up, water heavy in her hair, mascara in her eyes when the door to the bathroom is kicked in. 

J rushes in, television in his arms, his laptop corded to the input, searching for a virus perhaps. He doesn't hesitate in flinging the equipment into the tub with her in it. The shock is brief, but nasty all the same, the devices sizzling out, their batteries and motherboards frying. 

Luckily, the batteries give out before her heart does. 

And when her jaw can unclench, she yelps and cries, hot tears spilling down her face in discomfort. J seemingly only notices her then; in his frenzy to rid the devices, unable to see her inside the tub. If he is guilty he shows it by scrambling to yank her free from the water, and wetting his shirt with her frazzled body crushed against him.

She wails into his collar, trembling with pain, lungs heaving pathetically. The water too, too hot on her, it's like wrenching free of boiling tar. He scoops her up, growling his astonishment, snarling his self-reproach and confusion. 

He takes her...takes her to his bed. And drys her vigorously with cashmere, her body taunt and bristled. He works the towel between each toe, when he finally speaks calmly. "I told you I'd be there quick." 

She is seething at his disillusion, " You could have killed me! I thought you were coming to... I didn't think you'd be frying the devices in the bath with me in it." He cocks his head at her, cracking her glittery toes, ignoring her irritation. "My apologies, babycakes. But both our safety was jeopardized. Our metal friends had a nasty bug."

A headache bulges behind her eyes, but her concern flares redder than her agony. "What are we gonna do?" Her hands start itching, gripping an invisible bat in that protective fury, that strongest emotion that connects her heart to his rib. 

He folds her into the sheets, smiling at her recovery. "You will be staying here, in the house, away from the outlets. I will be going _rat hunting._ Those devices were purchased privately. The list will be short, I'll be back before lights out."

* * *

 

There is banging outside of J's door, deep voices calling her name. She lays on all fours on the carpet, feet twisting in the shag, fingers twisting in her hair. 

She lifts, on zombie limbs when the knocking persists on the big door of J's room. She opens the door, and standing on the other side is the henchman, the tall bearded one that told her about J's twin brother the other day. 

She is only dressed in a nightgown, she leans from her fingernails away from the frame, teeth bared friendly. " _Heeeey_...Whatcha doing here?" 

He clears his throat, eyes hidden by his shades. "I was asked to collect you...erm, boss man wants to take you out for the night. He wanted me to tell you that it was important and to dress nicely." He seems embarrassed.

"Oh but. I'm supposed to stay home tonight. J has important stuff to do, he'll be back in a hour or two. I'll talk to him then about going out." 

Big Man keeps his hand on the door. "He said that you would say that. He wanted me to let you know that this invitation is non-negotiable. He needs you with him." 

"Is that so? He gave me specific instructions not to leave. Didn't he tell you what happened?" She combats, twirling her hair around her finger. 

Big Man rubs the back of his neck, sweating. "I wouldn't know. He would say that whatever happens between a man and his woman is not for the sewing circle."

Harley bounces on her feet, hands high in the air. "Yay! That sounds like my pudding! I'll get ready in a jiffy. Boy! Oh boy! I had you sweating bullets, why dontcha use the powder room. Third from the left, deary!" 

Big Man ambles down the hall, his legs jelly.

* * *

 

Harley feels electrified, fresh in her new gold and white sequin dress. The windows are rolled half down, her hair tethered into two pig-tails. She fogs the glass with her breath, drawing birds and ladybugs. 

She even draws J. Her illustration gives Big Man the skunk eye. 

Big Man takes up most of the seats in the backseat with her, his phone constantly buzzing with directions, which he feeds to the driver.

The chauffeur speaks only Hungarian, the progress is slow. 

"Are we almost there?" She whines, not recognizing any of the cities landmarks anymore. "It wouldn't hurt to stop and ask for directions ya know?" Big Man only grumbles something about having an useless driver. 

The reassurance is little.

The light poles dart past consecutively. The dusk phasing to night, and those poles start looking like bones.

That is when she feels the garrote wire lynch around her neck. The blocks having become more secluded, more remote, urban waste, a perfect place for a snuff. She has known this since J took her out on their first date. 

She knows not to tense her neck, but hold her breath in her chest and relax into the pressure. She does not want the wire to slice her throat open hastily.

The driver keeps going, even with her feet kicking the back of his head rest. Big Man is too big to fight, but she spins, careful of the wire corded around the most delicate part of her body. She finds enough space to paw the butterfly knife she took with her, her suspicions merited, it was good thinking wearing a garter tonight. 

While being strangled, his leg pinning her beneath him, her legs and broken heels spilling into the drivers seat. She takes the purdy knife and drives it home, deep into his hip. 

She hopes she nicked his artery, she has been practicing.

She swings him onto his back, spilling him onto the car floor, snapping a few of his fingers in her teeth. He is screaming, and the driver is speeding across a short bridge, searching for his pistol frantically. 

The wire is entangled around her neck, blood in her teeth, knife mincing his neck and chest open into a bubbling sort of meat. 

The car clears the bridge, the driver has his pistol in hand, his teeth flashing, spit flying. 

The bones of the street break a digit in her count, a small back road crosses their path.

She squints, knife so fucking tight in her palm, as the hidden car with no godly reason to be driving reverse on a one way street, crashes grill first into their side. 

The back of her head punches the glass behind her on impact. 

And they are squealing back- forced into the adjacent rail. The driver, the poor Hungarian bastard, has twisted his neck. 

What is left of the Big Man is gurgling on her thigh, she relieves herself on his corpse, blood gushing from her temple to her chin and breasts. 

She watches from the other side of broken glass, as a figure leaves the large truck. They are wearing all black combats, and a blacked-out fencing mask. They pull out a bag from the back seat, as vigilant as a coyote waiting for the eagle to strike down in the cool night. They move quickly and cautiously towards the wreck, boots crunching the sandy glass. 

Her head is a swarm of black, fluttering insects. The knife gone from her hand. And then, the blacked out figure is by her window, knocking its fingers against the glass, motioning something.

They lift a crow bar, tapping it against the frame again, tilting their head. It's all so foggy. The image of silly J on the window is melting. She looks away with her eyes closed, as the glass bursts into her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter definitely had more melancholy and hinted malice. Harley's outfit was inspired by this--> [ Harley's slasher dress](http://www.ricketyrack.com/media/7\(127\).jpg)
> 
> Let me know what you think, your comments and kudos are what keeps me inspired and updating so frequently. I can't thank everyone enough! :)
> 
> This chapters musical inspiration ---->[Voodoo in my Blood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElvLZMsYXlo&list=FLAER80c-3_PDc_8cuCBR8rQ&index=5&ab_channel=MassiveAttackVEVO)
> 
> And, does anyone have any recommendations on how to get more hits?


	4. We Are The Scum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I heard stories about you as well. I heard tales about your experiments, your institution in Greenland. Those poor souls that you sliced up. _Human Modification..._ what drivel. But I know the last time the board hand-fed you a pretty rat, it bit your hand and scurried off. Of course, you never told anyone that, you told them that he died like the rest. I would say that too, I wouldn't dare tell a soul. Let's hope that which is forgotten stays lost, Doctor."

It is a fly, that buzzes around his head, the only thing to move. 

It's the only thing that has fucking moved since he heard. The lamp light overhead in the garage, stretches along his back the more he bends his nose to the twisted craft below. 

They, the lights, flicker on the fattest bugs. 

The men are trying their best to avoid him, but they are fat under the light as well. He aims his gun, _zizz zizz._

 _Up, up, up_ he stands on a platform, dressed in his blacks, rose head in his pocket, looking down on the wreckage, the bane of metal that holds the secret... The puzzle to his Harley Quinn's whereabouts. 

He thinks, always thinking, why does his cupcake _always_ get snatched into the thick of things? And, why should he bother searching for her? For that nasty little bitch that keeps getting herself caught? 

His rings tink on the metal rail the harder he grips. His rage, it requires both hands down to the bar. 

His face is streaked, his eyes smearing black lines to his chin. Rouge is on his teeth, tongue pinched between, his seethes whichever word that makes the least sense.

He is hurting in that fucking place, that crawl space under his decrepit heart. 

He had to bust a nut in the poodle, didn't he? Of all times. His punchline has never been off before. 

He slaps his cheek in reproof for his zealous carnality. He does it again in contradiction. 

_Oh, Joker, old boy, how couldn't ya have resisted?_ The voices berate and beat him until he jags a bullet into a goon's head. The relief is immediate, the pressure squatting off his chest faster than a hooker with a ten cent tip. 

The boy with his eyes rolling white, blood rimming his orifices, slides down the wall, pretty red snaking down the concrete with him into a fine, thanksgiving turkey perfect, limp heap. 

His surviving workers scurry away into the dark, skittering like cockroaches in the dishes. 

He screams into his wrists, his Rolex shimmering in his smile, his glee platinum. His gun clattering to the steel grate, body shaking with his cries.

Those funny doctors, they always said something about...What was it? _Composure._ But this brings back memories of skirts, blonde up-done hair, and a vulnerable mind that was above all better for him than beauty ever was. 

He spits like a camel on the remains of the dead henchmen below, two plots made of cheap carpet lay directly below the platform. The rolled carpets will be delivered to a vat of acid come the morning. He eyes the brain-busted boy against the wall, _hm hoo_ , it will be three carpets then. 

The twisted car, its flank caved in, blood on the cushions, glass splintered, has too, been unusually vandalized. Only the most perverse, tooth squeaky, criminal would kick a Cadillac when its already down. 

The spray paint, a boring white, reads across the door. **A.R.G.U.S**

It gives him some idea of where to start looking. He stomps out of the garage, taking his time to punch himself out, his time card blotchy with bloody finger prints. It won't matter if anyone finds them anywho, he is untraceable, the benefit of burnt piggies.

He has a tickle, what was it his brother always said in situations like this? His eyes center on the horizon. The early morning taking on the light of perfume under neon glow. 

Oh, yes... _' The morning has gold in its mouth. '_ His brother is a phantom speaking on his shoulder, nattering these idioms. 

He has never understood the joke. But he laughs anyway, invigorated.

Ha. HA. HAHAHA.

* * *

 

It is a fly that lands on her Poulet a L'Estragon. It's many legs stickily against the milky skin of the chicken. It flutters its wings, once, twice before dying in the sop.

She plucks the creature from the plate, ripping its delicate wings off, then wiping her hands clean on the satin towelette on her lap, tossing the fabric on the table. She drinks from her glass of Dom, sucking on her lip in annoyance, her associate late. 

She takes a fine knife, lifting it to find her reflection. Her hair is short, bobbed into intricate order. Her eyes olives in milk, vodka in water.

Down by her feet, by her thick heels is a briefcase, with a twelve-digit lock combination. She pushes aside her plate of food, taking her clearance card and setting it down in her meals place. She makes sure it is perfect and centered with the cutlery. 

It is on her second sip of her champagne, that her associate walks in and takes her seat, adjacent to her own. 

She taps her fingers on the clothed surface, her identification card rattling like the snake she is. "I've order you a bloody steak. I've heard it's a favorite of this establishments selections."

Amanda fixes her suit, her dark eyes set on her, they are friendly opponents. "I didn't think the kitchens were open this late."

"They are not. But you see, I get people to do what I ask." Her eyes are rolling around the room, fingers like spiders legs. 

"You do have a hold over people, it's one of your talents, damn me if none of us wanted a piece of it." Amanda reclines in her seat comfortably, legs crossed. 

The silence swells as they face off one another. The elephant in the room needing to be addressed.

"Amanda, as much as you desire my persuasion... I bet you don't know that you yourself have a hardy and difficult quirk, a bane, my kryptonite if we are any less delicate to say. I wager you cannot guess what it is that you possess that vexes me so much." She bangs her palms on the table, smiling. 

Amanda's cocks her head, disapproval thick in her lips. "I don't play games. Much less guess." 

"Aha! There it is, you don't listen! What good does my supposed gift do if you don't listen!?" She laughs, slapping her knees. "How much to you wheedle and wheedle until you bore clean through? I'm curious, but yesterday, I found the limit. Tell me why when your men illegally got involved with the detaining of my subject, my careful plan fell through, and she miraculously escaped and my men laid slaughtered on the curb?" 

"Might I remind you. The subject you are referring to, was transferred into my custody more than a year ago. She is criminally wanted for breaking her contract with me." 

"Oh yes, your little club. The higher birdies told me story about that. What a impression you must've made, for them to void her warrant to you. She is under my protection, my authority, if I want her dead- I will kill her. If I want her brought in- I will take her. This bedlam was not my intention, having her get spooked by your spying, having her get help from a third party and then, somehow, dropping off the radar, are all not part of my plan! I lent her to you as part of my organizations progression, and my, how sordidly have you fucked that up."

Amanda with a scowl, sets a manila envelope on the table top. "I have her performance reviews here. All for your records. They are substantial." 

"I would expect nothing less than substantial." She slides the folders into her briefcase, locking them firmly away. "Now, since you don't listen to me. I hope you will listen to the board, they will be sending you a letter about your future involvement, if that. It will highlight key notes, such as, staying away from my property and if you need clarification on what that is, let me remind you." She lifts from her seat, dropping a Joker card onto the cold steak. "It's anything that looks like a fucking _clown_. Enjoy your meal. Ta." 

She is about to leave, when Amanda interjects. "You lost one." 

She stops dead in her tracks, suitcase tapping against her calf. "Mmh?" 

Amanda cuts into her steak, screeching the knife against the plate, fuming. "I heard stories about you as well. I heard tales about your experiments, your institution in Greenland. Those poor souls that you sliced up. _Human Modification..._ what drivel. But I know the last time the board hand-fed you a pretty rat, it bit your hand and scurried off. Of course, you never told anyone that, you told them that he died like the rest. I would say that too, I wouldn't dare tell a soul. Let's hope that which is forgotten stays lost, Doctor."

The door bangs shuts, chewing and slicing, the only sound left in the restaurant.

* * *

 

It is a fly that awakens her.

It tickles against her bare thigh, whining in the air as it does loopy loops around her ears.

It reminds her of Mistah J, when he brushes his fingers across her, when he buzzes and flirts words into her neck. She opens her eyes, happy, aching for his deeper touch, something that would often happen if he awoke this cheery with her inside their bed. 

But when she moves her head, to get a mouthful of him, she is met with cold porcelain. 

It takes only a second for her mind to remember, screeching tires, twisted metal, busted glass, and fingers breaking in her mouth. She tries to snap up, but her hands are locked in handcuffs above her head, cleverly looped around a toilet. She then tries to kick, only to feel that her feet are restrained too, tethered by chain to the steel shower rod beside her. 

She squirms, testing every niche of her restraints, but it is futile. 

Her imprisonment is professional. Ah, she would have to charm her captors instead.

And speaketh the devil, he shall appear, even appear bizarrely so. Her captor, sits cross-legged from her, dressed in blacks, gloved with latex. His fencing mask is the source of her amusement, painted across the netting, is a comical smile, full toothed and everything. 

He doesn't speak, but points to her head. The pain is almost immediate, the goose egg on her head throbbing to his attention. 

She thinks it's a _him._ "You a mister?"

He ignores her, knocking his knuckles on the wall, to a scribble of stitches, then his hand points back to her head. She remembers bleeding down her face and shirt, the stitches on her head stiffening once she realizes their existence. "You stitched me up?" 

He nods. She wiggles in discomfort. "Do you have a pillow or anything? I'll kink my neck." 

He doesn't move. 

She huffs, "Are you mute?" 

He wiggles his finger at her, a kind gesture for 'shut up, please', she remembers J doing that. 

She barrels past that, her curiosity ignited. "What is your name? What are you going to do with me? What do ya want, my boyfriend can fix you up something pretty for saving me?" 

He pulls some items out of a bag, it's a black marker and a hypodermic needle. He uncaps the marker, writing on the girth of the sink, his name. 

**E Z R A**

She scrunches her nose at him, "That sounds made up. What is your real name?" 

He scrawls on the drywall for a longer note. **G A V E M Y S E L F A N A M E. Y O U R BF W I L L K I L L. B E T T E R 2 W A I T.**

"Do you know my Puddin?" She strains against the ties, tendons screaming. He places the pen back into his bag, grabbing the needle, he points at her leg, then taps the needle against his cloaked temple.

Her head is throbbing, pain amplified by the hard ground, she struggles to understand what he is saying. "You want to stick me? Will it make my head better?" 

His hand is extended, reluctant to grab her thigh, he gives her a thumbs up.

She remembers the strawberry milkshakes the asylum would feed her through her nose, the cream lumpy with drugs. She glances at the needle, it appears well taken care of. She could fight him, but there's little to do, chained both ways to Sunday. 

Strange trust flows through her, perhaps noticing how he was keen on asking her permission, rather than just doping her. It's a nice thought, a kidnapper with manners, but there is little doubt in her mind, that if she refused, he wouldn't just jab her anyways. 

She gulps, "Okay.. Ezra. I'll let ya poke me, but no funny business. No _cha cha_ while I'm sleeping? Got it? Mistah J will have your biscuits baked if you try-" 

The needle is already stuck in her thigh, a puff of her blood filling the vial before his is pressing down on the plunger.

The euphoria of pain killers slither into her aching bones, rushing into her brain. He smacks at her thigh, percussing the glorious fluids deeper. 

She is drooling by the time she feels his fingers lightly disinfect her injection site, rubbing a colorful band-aid onto the boo-boo. 

Then he is packing up and heading out a chain-screen door, locking it behind him. She moans, the superb haze of drugs, making his painted smile start to move. Harley is left giggling, drowsing into a perfect sleep, watching the fly on the wall drone on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! Any ideas? :) Any query?  
>  **kudo** or **comment** , all forms of support are greatly appreciated!!


	5. The Many Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She hears him chuckle, the sound is so low and so recognizable, that she knows, she must be hearing cruel copies of things. But the sound rings in her ears, it's scrumptious, like whip cream straight from the can. 
> 
> It reminds her of a night with J between her legs, cream inbetween her toes.

**NEWTOWN**

An elderly lady wraps a boa of mink around her throat, hiding the pacemaker scar between her sagged breasts. She fiddles with the hem of her crystal dress, sized to fit her matured marbling. The meat of her legs cold, unkneaded dough; slick lace, midnight hose dresses her rumpled vines and skin. She has given up smoking, but between her fingers, she holds a cigarette holder, ivory and fine. 

She sits on a spinning blush chair, dabbling powder on her face, adjusting her false teeth when her grandson enters into the massive, chateau room. Her diamond collared pooches have followed him back in from relieving their bladders, her grandson is scowling at them. 

He doesn't appreciate such asinine chores. And, she doesn't appreciate his truculent behavior towards her. But, he is taking her to the opera tonight, a special celebration for his promotion, so his aggravation would be tolerable for now. 

She suspects most of his pique erupts from the fact he has no one else to take, or to celebrate a night out with. He is not much of a ladies man, and she too, thinks that stems from his constant bladder infections. 

It will be a miracle if the family line passes him. 

One of her small, hairy children, chews at their matted haunch, bobbly eyes crossed. The noise is a mix between snorting and licking. 

Her grandson, tall and lanky, prickly and griping, makes his way to the cinema room. 

She has a curler in her eye as she brays, "Where are you going? The limo will be here shortly."

He huffs, "I'm grabbing my coat and cigars. Should I grab your Valium as well? 

She squirts some Dior on either ear, rubbing it in, appraising her choice of earrings. "Keep talking, someday you will say something intelligent."

He mutters something melodramatic, shuffling off into the separate room. There is a knock on the door, the dogs begin to shrill. "Barbaros! The door!" Her grandson doesn't appear from the doorway, so with a hiss, she finds her cane, and ambles to the gate. She is cussing, harping nasty things, her dogs swarming around her netted legs when she grasps the knob.

She tugs at her swells hem, trying to lift her piteous breasts for show. 

The door swings open, The Joker cheeks dimple. His snub-nose revolver blasting her jugular open, the bullet cutting out her neck. 

She crashes out on the floor, pearls flying. His men leap over her, scouring the rest of the chateau for their little friend.

Barbaros is dragged into the room, kicking and screaming, his pants thinning around his socks like frog legs. He is pushed against the oaken desk, barrels under his jaw and pressed to his groin. 

J kneels next to the fat corpse, fishing out the old broads dentures, chattering them comically. He faces her restrained grandson, "What a fine lady! Wowza. How many puppies has she popped?" 

Barbaros is quite for a moment, guns at his teeth before he muffles, "She had five kids..." 

J pouts impressed, "I give her kudos. The missus and I have been trying for a while but alas...stinged." The corpse wheezes and J shoots again, the dogs squeal madly. 

Frost pipes in, kicking one of the mutts away from him. "Dicky, can you take care of those rats. Last thing I need is them lifting a leg on my shoes." The henchmen scruffs the pooches to the roaring fireplace.

J's voice is rising louder with his stretching smile, "You must come from fertile stock, hey, hey, Barbaros." He clicks his metal teeth, gun scratching his cheek. _"Lucky, lucky."_

Barbaros struggles a bit, voice raspy. "Joker... I'm sorry about your girl. If I'd known they were planning that...I would of told ya. You gotta believe me!? I didn't know!"

J brings a nylon clothed machine over to the desk, it's about the size of a phone book. "Give him a seat, boys."

"No! Stop!" They lift him onto the desk, laying him out back flat. Barbaros squirms, desperately trying to fight himself off the table top. Frost jabs his gun to his temple, gibing. "No one fucks with my Boss. You gonna answer some questions, and maybe, maybe, if Boss is so inclined, he'll let you live." 

Barbaros trembles, paralyzed with fear. Joker swings around to his feet, snatching them, squeezing his leather shoes. 

He sighs, condoling. "It doesn't matter... Don't matter to me what you know and not know. It's what you do that matters to me. And in this case, it's that you did not look hard enough. I don't like being blindsided, so enlighten me what you know? Tell me all about the dragon that took my girl?" 

J slowly begins untying his victim's laces when they start sputtering. "Wait- I, I don't know much about them... They are a faction, an inside company of A.R.G.U.S. It was Waller that was spying on your woman at first! I warned you about that...But they weren't the ones that initiated the hit. It was this other agency, this ghost... "

J pulls off Barbaros' shoes and socks, wiggling his toes. "And who are they?" 

"They...fuck, they are some private organization, an offshoot of A.R.G.U.S. They are blacked out, can't find a squeak about them..." J twines a copper cord around his big toe, the wire is connected to the box device. 

Joker's voice is crystal clear, "Give me your clearance number."

Barbaros' eyes go wide, smiling nervously and gasping. "I can't do that... I can't they'll kill me..." 

" _Oh, oh._ You remember our conversation about potency and your luscious, dear departed grandmama?" J squeezes his thighs open, another metal wire spooled from the machine inside his creeping hand. "Now how unfortunate if your families legacy gets sizzled before you can make some fat bellies. _Hm, hm,_ it's all about the families jewels, now isn't it?"

The mob understands, ripping Bardaros belt off and yanking down his pants without needing a signal, he is screaming and thrashing, but they hold him down. 

J scoops his manly bits in a naily grip , tethering the forked wire around the base of that one-eyed organ. He then directs the panicking Barbaros' attention to the box, that he has so delicately been lashed too.

J is laughing, wiping his hand off in his sleeked hair. He drops one of his arms onto the devices head, kissing his fingertips with pride. 

"This is my little friend, his name is Tucker. He has been modified from the traditional crank to cellular. I'm sure you heard all about these. " J pulls out his phone, dialing. "How about we make some special calls."

The call connects, and the frying begins. The happy device lighting up with the rings. The men stay back, not wanting a nasty shock alongside their sizzling victim. 

Barbaros balls are roasting, zazzy agony spearing from his scrotum, down to his foot. He is wrenched, spine bending with the series of violent shocks, the electricity rhyming with the ringer. 

His jaw is locked, frothing heaps, eyes curled and flat. Anything metal he wears sparks and melts to his skin. The call ends, and he slumps down, bursting into uncontrollable aftershocks.

His desire to lift even a finger, has diminished with his cooked-to-mulch meat. That place bowed between his legs, a harrowing rend, sopped in his excrement. 

"Let's have that code now." J has the phone down by his ear, pattering with the dials. Bardaros lolls his eyes to The Smile, it's the only thing these seeing rocks in his head can work, deciphering a vision of horror. 

He struggles to keep his consciousness above the fuzzy black spiders crawling in the bones of his face. The bend in his waist, the spilt to his legs, is cooked, degloved pork.

"Eu....eugenics... They...were the ones who took...took your brother..." It is as if the air has been sucked clean out of the room. The windows rolled down in a rocket. "They have her now...It hurts... _hurts so bad_...help me."

 

_SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE GOTHAM_

A wet spray of oatmeal is sprayed from her lips, soaking the netting of his mask, dribbling down his black front. Ezra is nonplussed as he wipes away her spit, _again._ The oatmeal is apparently for her digestion, for the pan, easier for him to handle. Harley won't let herself be subjected to such indignity, only over her dead body. She thinks of J sadly and wonders where he could be? What he is doing now that she is gone? She hopes that he is missing her as much as she is missing him. 

But most importantly, she idles and broods, _What the fuck is taking him so long?_ The sea monkey in her belly pulls a cramp. She stifles a pained cry. Her stomach has been twisting for hours.

Her eyes focus on the limbs of black cloth in front of her. Ezra is cross-legged, his fingers plucking the dried flakes of oat off his attire. Her spit of little interest to him. The spoil from her mouth of no hindrance. He is unfathomable.

He swipes a small spoon cleanly of its rejuvenated portion, holding it out in front of her frown patiently. Harley grits her teeth in agitation, growling, kicking her legs at him. 

He has set her up against the bath, her hands still cuffed, and her legs bound together, unable to deliver the ferocity she desires. 

This is the third time he has visited her since she arrived, she has refused to eat any of the swill he has presented as meals. Her hunger gnaws at her edges, her eyes foggy.

She whines, "I want toast and marmalade! How many times must I tell you! I won't eat this!" Ezra places the spoon back down into the bowl, taking out his notepad instead. It takes a few seconds for her clouding eyes to read his fine scrawl. 

_Aren't you hungry yet?_

Harley roars, teeth flashing. "Are you stupid!? I wont eat that sludge! Get me something proper and I'll chow..." He scribbles some more, his fingers tight. 

_It's good for your stomach. No need to make you sick on rich food._

Harley with slight difficulty manages to rolls her eyes, scowling. "I know what's good for me!" He is quiet for a long moment, only tapping the stylus to the paper, his face appearing like a hollow in a tree, sightless and uninteresting. 

She perks to this small, indecisive moment of her captor's. He has never before been this irresolute with his decisions, she wagers that if she plays this right, she can get a hot cup of coffee by the end of it. 

He wiggles out some more words, showing the pad between his two forefingers. _One question for every gulp?_

Harley practically glows to this idea, christmas lights beneath her skin, bulbs bright in her pupils. Any questions fulfilled could help her achieve her endgame, to reunite with Puddin. 

She forces a smile, "Okay...Okay. I can do that, _easy peasy lemon squeezy!"_

She hears him chuckle, the sound is so low and so recognizable, that she knows, she must be hearing cruel copies of things. But the sound rings in her ears, it's scrumptious, like whip cream straight from the can. 

It reminds her of a night with J between her legs, cream inbetween her toes. 

She shakes her head, clearing those slippery thoughts like wet on a dog. "I'm going silly aren't I? A regular Patty Hearst. " Ezra doesn't comment, it's likely he never will. 

He lifts the spoon of gruel to her lips once again. The curdled slop is a bad meat grey, wet and oily on the edges of the utensil, she thinks of the spooling green guts of a skinned rabbit, that warm stink of gelled grasses, and nearly retches. 

But, it's the seizing coil of discomfort in her belly that forces a hand up her throat, working her mouth like a greedy puppet. Her teeth scrap against the spoon, snatching the slug of meal into her mouth with a slurp. 

It's cold, squishy, and tainted. She tries not to think of what he might have done to the sop prior to feeding her. It goes down her throat like a snail on a sleigh of molasses, oil all around her lips and nostrils. 

The dollop of food hits her stomach, and that pain is released. Triumph and hunger replace the vacancy the aching left behind, tears prick her eyes in astonishment and such zany relief. 

She tries to imagine Ezra grinning. But as she looks upon him, her eyes watery, he only lifts another spoonful to her mouth, their quid pro quo to be forgoed. She laughs lightly, tears burgeoning, as she happily eats what he spoons to her mouth. 

She is ravenous. She thinks of biting his fingers off like baby carrots. 

The bowl is cleaned quickly, Ezra is diligent in scrapping the bowl out of every ounce of sustenance. There is only the clicking of his task filling the space of her captivity, until with a hiccup she decides to ply the game afoot. 

It wouldn't do to ask him where he was hiding her, the answer would be either vague or useless to only her. So, so, to ask an indirect question would do her much better. 

She smiles, her sloppy dinner in her teeth. "Do you know my Pudding? Like really know him. Not like those broads who 'know' movie stars from there t.v sets, but like, know him the other way?" 

She detects a shift in the air. It's like holding out on the hood of a car during a thunderstorm. 

He flips the pad to her. 

_I've known him._

She doesn't bother to push that further, it doesn't matter if he knew J, it only meant he understands the stakes of the game he is playing with her. She settles her chin on her tucked up knees, "Who are you working for? They must've paid you a pretty purse?" 

_I'm self-employed_

That was something she hadn't expected. Was he trying to impress J with his cleverness? Does he want a job? No, that cannot be it. She taps her feet. "Are you pervert or something?" 

**_No_**

"Are you a prude then?"

_No_

"Then why you wasting my time? Nada one I know kidnaps a girlie less it's for money or fucking, or you know wifing? Are you likely to take a wife?" 

He doesn't bother writing for her, she pops her lips in amusement. " _Oh!_ You drive your car in the other lane? That it?"

_Finished girlie?_ He clicks his pen on his knuckles, rolling out his neck. She pouts angry, her mirth fizzling out into disappointment, like sand to the bottom of a shoe. "Do you not think I'm funny or something? Why don't you laugh?" She wants to hear him laugh again.

_It would be rude of me to laugh._

She sticks out her tongue in distaste, her lips curling on that bitter chip of consideration, "Just as I suspected. You're a cornball. I had a daddy like you, then I got a new one." 

He crumbles the paper slip, as she grumbles under her breath, "You're a pretty dull boy." It's to her surprise when he flips off the lights, only the smallest amount of light coming in through the chain door. 

He takes off his gloves. 

Harley gulps, preparing for him to touch her. But he doesn't, he only brings his hands close under her eyes. She strains in the dark to see what he is trying to show her, but then she sees, inked across his pale knuckles, five letters then four letters on the other hand. 

__

_D O P E Y - F U C K_

She recognizes the artwork as if she was looking up at the Sistine chapel. It was Puddings work. There across his knuckles like dry ridges in a cornfield. A passage bringing light beams into her sleep. 

She tires to grab for his hands, his chest, but the cuffs, they tighten like a python round hog bones. She is left with her eyes bulging, garlic bulbs in her sockets, lips stonified like rolled dough in a kiln. 

Her face cracks its porcelain when he takes care to wipe away the mess around her lips with sanitized wipes. The lights are still out. She is fucking lost.

This...This...it all has to be a trick. 

It's all in the inside of her bones, marbles inside a rainstick, the stones in her marrow. J must've arranged this, it has to be some sort of test. 

It's not as if this hasn't happened before. Ezra has to be a hire. J wouldn't tattoo someone he didn't have credence with. 

She rakes her brain for memory of someone with his matching tattoos, but all that comes in her hands is brains and bits. 

She thought J only tattooed her. Her heart squeezes, wringing acid into her chest.

But, she imagines J standing next to her, his hand shaking, his rings in her ribs. As Queen of Gotham, she had a big duty and that was to respect those J would want her to. 

Not drug lords, not gang heads, not the common maggot found in Gotham's streets, but respect for those, those few that J himself liked. 

Ezra must be one of those boys that would get the bullet rather than the chipper. 

She drops her head low, her lashes fluttering, sticky with mascara. She chirps like a crushed katydid, "I take it back." 

Her apology makes her lip tremble, Ezra shifts, his hands settling on his thighs. The mask, bowled like a birds nest, it's hollow and lifeless to her suffering. 

He is just a witness to her rampant, runaway ideas and conceptions. 

He is waiting like a vulture, keen on the air, beak deep in her meat.

The food in her stomach is giving her strength, but to all the wrong places. Her head is zizzy with fraut, her peach rotting with pulsing cramps.

This engagement is getting out of hand. In her eyes, she sees his painted smile uplift into the mouth of her pudding, steel and tooth biting the air like a rabid dog. 

The food must be drugged.

Her head is spinning, the darkness of the room becoming thick like water. But Ezra is sloughing off his darkness, shedding his skin like a nacreous deep-sea eel under the rocks. 

There is lead in her belly, as the fingers in her eyes are proved to be nothing but air, the fingers down her throat are nothing but her words. 

Ezra with the hands, like the talons of ravens, his mask a tarred hive, becomes J. 

And, J has only nasty things to say to her. 

She is wailing, screaming inside, but all that comes out are bemoans, soft grunts and woos. 

Harley is lugging through a forest of knives, cutting past and shredding apart. The drugs he has given her....they are _strong._

Ezra is a gargoyle, sitting in front of her, eyes like floodlights, she the rat with red in her eyes he has prized. 

There is the feeling of being on a paper boat sailing the water for far too long.

And, then, in the depths of J beating the stuffing out of her, in the confrontation of her beasts, and bizarre inflamed kites soaring throughout the bathroom, she feels hands sturdy her head back to the linoleum of the floor. 

She feels her bounds being refastened around the toilet, something of wool being placed over her fevered body. 

She opens her eyes, to see light coming through the chained door, the dark no longer swelling them shut. 

Ezra is gone.. 

She vomits into her hair, her body cramping intensely.

It has to have been hours since he has last left her alone. 

The natural light streaming through the grated door, is artificial, outside must be dark by now. The blanket on her body is itching, there's something slick inbetween her legs.

She angles her body differently, popping her legs out. It is a relief to her, seeing that her legs lay unbinded, perhaps Ezra had forgotten about them. 

She pulls herself from the ground and the sick, twisting until she is up on her knees, looking over the toilet bowl, her hands still cuffed around the base. 

Her stomach is cramping, her womb wringing out, emptying on the tiles, running down her thighs, a bloody show. 

She looks at the mess, heartbroken. Somewhere inside that spill, inside the smear, there was what was to be a fresh start, a perfect present for Puddin.

Her head shakes in fury as she glances around the small room, her prison. It is awfully apparent that she was duped. 

J had no hand in this. He wouldn't risk their maybe baby. He would have intervened by now. 

So, her captor had indeed, _legitimately_ kidnapped her. And if J hadn't found her by now, this was professional. 

She looks at the strikes on the wall she has carved out with her toe nails. It numbers five. 

Whelp, it's about time she busted out. This wasn't _fun_ anymore. 

She feels for her belly button ring, when hitting the nub of metal with her hooked-back hands, she sucks in a giddy breath. 

_One potato_ , she twists the ring. _Two potato_ , she can't free the clasp. _Three potato_ , she rips it free of her skin.

A drizzle of blood leaks, the small rive in her belly yellowing. She is already working the hook of metal into the keyhole of her cuffs, fiddling, until the teeth snap open.

She doesn't bother freeing the other wrist, instead she fashions a brass knuckle, the handcuffs ratchet making a nice harpy hook. With dead legs, she hits the chained screen, wrestling with the catch, before launching at the door and breaking the lock from its bust. 

There's sick down her shirt, blood down her shorts, murder in her eyes.

The light is coming from a scented candle at the end of a hall, the hall has an attachment leading deeper into the house. 

In the bathroom, discarded on the floor, forgotten as a blanket, is Ezra's jacket. 

Harley lashes out with her weapon, testing, her smile spreads. 

But then...Her head cocks, seeking out a new sweet sound.

There is music softly playing and a cup of coffee awaiting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update! :( Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Story is dead. There might be a resurrection.


End file.
